Jazz said. "Although believe me, it's been a challenge keeping him from being here twenty-four-seven. Look, I've been thinking...maybe the Cross Society decided they owed you one. Considering that it was their fake red letter that got you in trouble in the first place."
Eerily possible. Gregory Ivanovich had defeated her security once. He could have done it again. And carried me out? If he'd used her emergency exit, he could have done it?"
"I'll deal with that later," she whispered. "What about Susannah? You said they released her?"
"Forensic evidence proved out her story. Her husband's prints were on the knife, hers overlaid his. So she picked up the knife after he did. So yeah, KCPD released her." Jazz cleared her throat. "Problem is, she's already had one attempt on her life since they let her go. We had to step in again."
McCarthy. Omar's bloody corpse flashed in front of Lucia's eyes again. "Anyone - " McCarthy " - hurt?"
"No, the shooter tried for a sidewalk hit. McCarthy got her behind a car in time. No damage."
"No red envelopes?"
"Evidently, saving her life isn't important." The grim set of Jazz's face told Lucia what she thought about that. "I chewed Laskins a new asshole trying to get Simms to tell us what happened to you. No comment from the jailhouse psychic. He'll put himself out for strangers, not for his own. Bastards, all of them. I'm sick of this fucking circus."
Lucia smiled faintly. She could well imagine Jazz on the phone with Borden's boss, reading him the riot act. Laskins wouldn't have been pleased. For all she knew, Jazz might have hopped a plane to California, where Simms was jailed, to try the psychic in person.
Borden was looking elsewhere, deliberately taking himself out of the conversation. She wondered if Jazz had considered the ramifications of having him in the room, and then realized that Jazz nearly always considered the ramifications. That was part of the contradiction of the woman. She was impulsive and rash, and she also saw consequences coming a mile ahead. That didn't mean she allowed them to dictate her course of action.
Lucia cleared her throat again. "She's still with him? With McCarthy?"
"Yeah. He put me in charge of finding you." Jazz shrugged, eyes glittering. "Called him every night to tell him that I hadn't. And every night, he told me that I'd better find you, or it'd be my ass."
"You did find me."
Jazz nodded. "Yeah, tripped over you getting admitted to the hospital. World-class detective, I am. But on the bright side, guess I get to keep my ass."
Lucia drank more water. Borden raised the pitcher inquiringly; she shook her head. "I wish I knew what - what happened." Because anything could have. That was a disturbing void in her life. "When can I get out of here?"
"When you can gnaw through the straps," Jazz said. "I want you here until you can kick ass and take names."
That, Lucia thought, would take nothing more than a decent meal, a walk around the building and a fresh set of clothes.
Because she was so very, very ready to kick ass.
* * *
It took something more than an afternoon - a day and a half, to be exact - for the various doctors to present themselves and sign off on her release. She'd grimly demonstrated her ability to walk, eat, drink and pee in sufficient quantities to get everyone off her back.
Ben McCarthy didn't show. She kept expecting to turn around and see him walking through the door, kept expecting to feel his presence behind her. Didn't happen. But then, she reminded herself, he was working. Doing her job, in fact.
That didn't stop her from feeling irrationally annoyed about it.
She felt weak, but it was the kind of weakness that only movement and exercise would cure. She started off by scorning the wheelchair and taking the stairs, with Jazz and Borden clumping along behind her.
"Did you bring me a gun?" she asked Jazz before they hit the ground floor exit.
For answer, Jazz jumped down to the landing, reached in the inside pocket of her leather jacket and pulled out Lucia's P95 and shoulder holster. Lucia ran through the checklist on the gun, ratcheting the slide, examining the clip, ejecting the bullet in the chamber and reloading. Everything worked smooth as silk.
"She cleaned it for you," Borden said.
Jazz shrugged. "No big deal." Then she grinned and nudged him with her elbow. "Besides, nude girls cleaning guns turn him on."
"More than I needed